Cleaning Up

I'm waiting, waiting for the knock on the door. Trying to decide whether it'll be the family from the end house, number Ninety-eight, or their pet copper. Awake most of the night thinking about it, working it out. It'll be the copper, no uniform, by himself, won't flash his identity, banking on what? Charm? Intimidation? The station's been cleaned up in the last ten years but there's always someone who's in debt, owes for the bribe, falls for the brown envelope, one who sees a chance to make money. Could be clerical staff, photocopying that search warrant, another one in debt or frightened of getting a leg broken.

The blue and white sports bag is tucked away in a plastic bag under a load of junk in the garden shed, not the place you'd go looking for it, not for a bag containing a sawn-off shotgun. Took it down out of the high hedge above the fence that backs onto the mews. It clanked. Tools, I thought, pinched from the boot of a car. A sawn-off shotgun. A swastika carved on the stock; a photocopied search warrant tucked alongside, the end house, number Ninety-Eight. My own photocopy of the photocopied search warrant is in a paperback on my shelf. Never liked criminals but hate bent coppers. Could I rely on anyone at the station doing the right thing? 'Look at this, Inspector. Someone in your station is on the other side'. Who can you trust? I'm surprised how angry I feel. A lot of past stuff welling up. Well, not surprising. Behind me now but not as far behind as I thought.

Can imagine the state of mind in Ninety-eight. I know their sort, can tell from the changing cars in their front run-in. Dodgy car dealer, stolen goods, something, anything crooked. Only needed to see the fat blonde in daft clothing and that bottled kipper-tan, ranting at her fat daughter, fag in her gob. They never make eye contact with neighbours or passers-by, never a 'good morning'. I can see him laying down the law to the family, 'Say nothing and nobody learns nothing'. There's a son, too, with a frown, a ferocious frown, at odds with the world. Not a nice family. Hate people like that. Didn't expect them to run to shotguns, though. A bad sign, a shotgun. They'll be wondering what to do. On the phone to their pet copper. Can imagine, can hear the snarly voice on the phone to their insider, 'Your problem as much as mine, the search warrant being in the bag. Yeah, too bad. So, best if you knock on a few doors and turn a few screws. Get on with it!'. Today, tomorrow at the latest.

Was a time when these houses were full of peasants. Multiple occupancy. All went down hill after World War Two. Bomb damage and Rachman landlords. Greeks and Turks bought in, sold in the nineteen-seventies, regretting it now the prices have gone through the new roofs, all tarted up now. Gentrified's the word for this and properly done as requested by the Borough Council, true to the style. Lucky me, parents buying cheap when they did. Buyers are usually okay neighbours; it's the renters that spoil the area. Peasants, mostly. Couldn't give a damn about anything. Prejudiced, me, as my parents were just such peasants. I got off to a very bad start in life.

Typical Victorian rectangles of houses, gardens mostly back to back, as green as a park, colour everywhere, lovely. Never want to move and couldn't anyway, something better being even more expensive. I love London despite its grubbiness and the streets around here full of Nigerian con-men, Turkish brothel owners, Serbian cigarette smugglers, fat idiot girls, white layabouts, black drivers with deafening car radios. You name it. Ibrahim jokes I'm a racist. I know he doesn't really mean it. And I'm not, no, of course I'm not. Sometimes I'm the only White Brit playing Badminton doubles. With a Greek, two Muslims, one Hindu and three from the West Indies. We all get on like a house on fire. Especially with Ibrahim. He's difficult to pin down. Funny and clever and strange all at the same time.

Front door bell; I'm ready, relaxed. Affable's the word. 'Yes?'. Big guy, plainclothed. Copper through and through. All by himself. 'Mr Terence Francis?', he says.

'I'm sticking with British Gas, staying with Barclays for insurance. You don't look like a Jehovah's Witness'. A tight unamused smile from the hard face. He says, 'Local police, Mr Francis. Making enquiries about stolen property. Informant says he saw a blue and white bag stuck in the hedge at the foot of your garden. Could be what we're looking for. Not there now', and he raises an eyebrow. No identity flashed but that doesn't worry me, won't complain. I shake my head, 'Seen nothing but I don't do a lot in the garden, not this weather. When was this, Officer? Could check, see if it's fallen down my side. Do come in'.

We can see from the kitchen door that there's nothing there.

'Could be kids throwing things over', I say, 'and come back for it. Lots use the mews; anyone might have lifted it out'. He stands still and looks longer than is necessary at the tangle of thorny rose. He doesn't look at me as he says, 'Absolutely sure you haven't seen it, Mr Francis?'.

A moment of anger welling up. He turns and looks at me so I point a finger within six inches of his nose and say, 'You know I'm lying, Officer! Took the bags of cocaine and the silver candlesticks out of it and made a fortune over in The Kings Head. Sold most of it to an off-duty copper', and I give a hard stare back. Then I give a sweet smile and say, 'If it helps you in your search, Officer, feel free to comb the place. You're welcome; no search warrant demanded'.

No change of expression. He says, 'You've done time, haven't you, Mr Francis' and this shocks me not a little, taking a good guess at my past. But I don't think it shows. I think fast and say, 'I haven't asked your name, haven't asked for proof of identity. Don't need to, Officer, it's copper through and through. Now you listen. I went straight nearly ten years ago, ashamed, regretful of my stupid past. Short spell inside for Grievous Bodily Harm. Don't do crime anymore. Force for good, now, Officer, believe me. Want references? Best in town, believe me, best in town. You'd be surprised. A reformed character. Ask the Reverend Miles of the Life-Ladder Refuge. I work there full time rehabilitating drunks, crooks and bent coppers. You should be more careful what you say'.

We return up the stairs towards the front doort. I say, 'Yes, I'm on the straight and narrow, Officer. Just like you'.

At this moment he's thrown off the rails by one of the two Japanese girls tripping down the upper staircase, Yuko, giving a bright smile and a 'hullo', off to Uni. She gives a little wave goodbye at the gate. I say, 'Two lodgers, students. They speak pretty good English but I really wouldn't try asking them questions'.

At the door he stops and is thinking. He says, 'I trust Inland Revenue knows about this additional income, Mr Francis?'

I hold a finger up in front of his face. I say, 'Don't push your luck.That's harrassment, Officer. You obviously don't know the law on renting a room to students. Look it up'.

He stops at the gate and gives me his hard stare and says, 'And the name's Anderson'.

I say, 'Glad to have cleared things up with you, Mr Anderson'. I really am angry.

Absolutely certain nobody saw me. You never know. I've been down to the foot of the garden and still can't be certain if Ninety-eight can see the end of my garden from a top bedroom. If Ninety-eight knows for sure then what now? Softly softly? Will it be, 'Let's do a deal Mr Francis, we both know the score, don't want any unpleasantness, do we? In your very best interests, Mr Francis, as there's a number of concerned parties, some of 'em should be in Broadmoor, by-the-way'. But who knows how sensible they are? After all these years I thought I was out of these circles. My own fault, thinking I might find a way to reveal the rotten apple. Better go and check on that insurance policy filed away in a plastic bag and an oily cloth, hanging behind the gas cooker. Might talk to Ibrahim, talk it over with him, someone to see another side to the problem.

Going inside really shook me up; looked around and thought, 'Am I really one of these? Am I as stupid as these?'. Going inside knocked me for six. I grabbed the Reverend Miles's life-line like a drowning man. He saw something in me, thank God. I started courses. 'Keep this up, Terry', Miles said, 'and I may have a job for you when you're out. We could do with someone with your background. Think seriously about the offer'.

Sitting in a good Iranian restaurant, Ibrahim opposite, big black beard. 'Play ball with them, Terry, and you're forever trapped in their rotten world. Here's a story: once my place opened I had a visit from two Turks. An early morning visit, the only customers in the place. They said, ten per-cent or the place goes up in flames. I looked worried, nervous, said 'cash or cheque and how much do you want immediately? This time of the day I'll have to go to a cash-point'. They said, 'We'll sit here, plain envelope and selotape it down'. 'Sharrif', I said, 'get these gentlemen coffees and an almond cake, be about ten minutes'.

In the street I knocked on the window of a car where Turkish music came out the window and a bloke is picking at his teeth. 'Your friends said, Go home, they'll see you later, not to worry'. Returned through the back door with three friends on the large and ugly side and locked the front door, put up the 'closed' notice, turned off the lights, sat the two Turks down again. Be as good as gold, I said, mobiles and wallets, if you please. Toni, I said, take all this into the office, photocopy everything, cards front and back, driving license if there is one (which I doubt) and make a very careful copy of every name and number on the mobile's contacts menu. Gentlemen, I said, I want the name, telephone number and address of your boss. You both will write these details on these separate sheets of paper. God help you if they aren't the same. Don't mess me about, I warned them. Sharrif here is an expert halal butcher. I borrowed a friend's Mercedes, parked on double yellows outside the coffee shop cum pool-room cum offices. Big smile, must see Mr M, private chat, something much to his advantage. Sallow face, grey moustache, bad teeth and very curious. Two of your lads are helping with the washing-up in my restaurant, I tell him. They would like to go home intact, everything there, to their loved ones and I've said that's fine as soon as I know your Boss understands that anything unfortunate happening to me and mine will see this place and all who work here, absolutely all, dead, dead as in slain. By bomb or bullet or butcher's knife. This is not an invitation to see who's top dog; this is a notice of a catastrophe the like of which The Lane has never seen. Please believe me when I tell you The Brotherhood is poised, ready to bring down terror and death on you and yours. Would I walk into this place otherwise? Now, I'm a Muslim man of my word; I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you too are a man of your word. Do we shake on this understanding? Good. So, you keep off me and mine'. Not a glimpse of trouble since, Terry.

We are at the stage of black coffee with cardamom seeds. Ibrahim says, 'No explosives, guns, no Brotherhood. Course not. I'm a very moral person as you well know. All a fiction! Could do something like that for you, Terry. Think about it. Boldness be your friend, Terry'.

Midmorning, knock on the door. 'Terry? I'm Steve, number Ninety-eight. Need a word; can I come in?'. I'm all pleasant smiles, 'In the kitchen, just about to make myself a cuppa; how about you?'. 'Not bothered', he says and, 'Nice place'. He sits himself down, looking uncertain how to begin, wondering Nasty or Nice. Then a sort of smile. 'I can talk easy with you, Terry, you've got a record like me. I know this. Don't want to cause you grief, Terry, but I think you may have found a bag belonging to a panicky friend, dumped in your hedge at the end of your garden. Can't see anyone else getting hold of it. Tell me I'm right. I want, he wants it back'.

Acting all amazed I say, 'You and that bloody copper! Well! I can only tell you exactly what I told him. Sorry, Steve, but I didn't see it and someone else must have lifted it, cocaine, silver candlesticks and all. The mews is a rat run for a lot of people'.

He says, looking blank and nasty, 'Birds of a feather, Terry. Do I trust you or don't I?'. I look and sound angry, 'Going straight. Would I hang onto stolen goods here with my record, Steve? Not bloody likely. I'm not daft. You wouldn't expect me to put myself in danger from the Andersons of this world for a bag of stolen goods'.

He sits and stares at me. 'Not worth anyone crossing me, Terry. End up looking a lot older than your years'.

Up the stairs to the front door. I say, 'That Anderson, nasty bit of work. Long time bent, I hear. Think you can trust him but he turns out to be a devious bugger. On the make. By the way, don't threaten me; don't want to have to go back to my old ways, Steve'. He doesn't smile. Neither do I. He says, 'Anderson's in my pocket, don't you worry. Busy building a good reputation. Chasing up Nigerian and Turkish protection rackets. Being a good boy'.

'Game for anything', says Ibrahim. So, here I am entering his restaurant to sit down with Ibby and the Mr M from the Turkish cafe and pool room. Greying hair, scrubby moustache, yellow skin to go with his teeth, spots of gold behind those dry lips. Not going to enjoy this but this is what happens when you go free-lance on the morality trail. Should've handed the bag and the warrant over to the police in the first place and banked on someone honest querying the leak from the Station. Back home anonymous letters are waiting on the shelf for posting with yet another copy of the warrant and a photo of the bag unzipped clearly showing its contents.

I stir sugar into my black coffee, Mr M lets his small cup stand there. I say, 'My friend Ibrahim thinks you'll be interested. Friend on the inside tells me a local copper, someone called Anderson, is about to push you and yours about. All because a criminal wants your business out of the way. In other words Anderson is being told to target you so his pals can expand their business. All to your great disadvantage, Mr M.'.

A few moments thinking. He stirs himself and then stirs his coffee. He says, 'Useful information. What are you getting out of it?'

I say, 'My friend on the inside tells me Anderson and this criminal will be targeting your premises, your coffee shop and pool room. I don't like bent coppers, you never know where you are with bent ones. The gangster pushing him is called Wallace, runs all sorts of shady enterprises between here and Bethnel Green. Home address is on this piece of paper'. He reads it but doesn't pick it up. One of those who memorises everything, all his money going in and out, names and addresses, who owes who what. He says, 'I know the man. Thanks for the address. I'll think about it'.

'Okay', says Ibrahim, 'I'll put that letter to Anderson in the post right now. He won't resist a peek into the cellars of the coffee shop. Expect there's stuff down there, anyway. And a washable plastic chair, handcuffs and such'.

Ibrahim phones me four days later, says Mr M called in, very grateful, which means that the place was clean for Anderson's visit. So, time to send the second letter to Ninety-eight along the lines of, 'Dear Steve. Mr M of the so-and-so Coffee Rooms and Pool Room is pleased to offer you goods (photo enclosed) in exchange for five thousand pounds, not open to discussion. Please to let the insider know that the search warrant is also up for sale'. Might do the trick. Best drop in on Mr M, I think, and warn him that Stevie Boy is a danger to all right-thinking citizens and is peeved at Anderson's lack of success in putting Mr M's business out of action. Please, please do bear this in mind, Mr M. Be warned.

Wednesday night's Badminton games are all fierce and frantic and I win as many as I lose, par for the course, Doubles only, of course, being more fun and cheaper. Ibrahim late in arriving. To one side he says, 'See the papers? Coffee shop raided two nights ago, mostly gutted by fire. Could've been any revenge attack by a rival Turkish or Kurd gang but what are the odds on your Steve?'.

Two hours of Badminton leaves me exhausted as usual and Ibrahim gives me a lift home with Rahul, dropping me off near to my street. Nine-fifteen p.m. and can't get into the road for police, police cars, an ambulance and a fire engine. Two smouldering vehicles in the gravel drive of Ninety-eight; the extension to the side of the house blackened by fire and smoke. Dozens of neighbours roped off and staring.

'I live here, Officer. What on earth's been going on? Nobody hurt, I trust?'. I see the fat blonde in a pink tracksuit sitting head in hands in the ambulance doorway with a policeman; fat daughter is next to her. Stevie Boy nowhere to be seen. 'Nobody injured as far as we know', says the kindly policewoman, 'Let me escort you to your house'.

I dump my kit in the hall and leave again for the pub at the other end of the road. From the telephone box inside I make an anonymous call through to the Transport Police at Kings Cross using an appalling accent. I say that an envelope is in the post with full information. The bag in Left Luggage won't go bang when you open it but you will be very interested in what you find there. I say, take a firearms expert with you. I have half a lager and post the letter. Should do the trick. Cleaning up.

Ibrahim splits a cardamom seed with an immaculate finger nail and says, 'Strange how some people with energy and certain skills can't make a bloody good living by honest means. Must always be on the wrong side to make it worth their while. Alright if you run a bank. Glad to see your Stevie Boy is going down for a few years. Sorry to see Anderson is retiring early instead of sharing a cell with him. Are you going to be alright, Terry?'.

I say, 'When Ninety-eight comes out he'll be looking for Anderson, not me, Anderson and the Turks. They're all like that, cunning as in peasant but brainless'.

Another thought occurs to Ibrahim, 'All this underhand stuff, Terry: not what a counsellor of alcoholics, wife-beaters, abusers and violent ex-convicts should be up to. The Reverend wouldn't be best pleased to hear all this; all your training set aside. Tut-tut, Terry'.

I try a smile. I say, 'A bit of righteous anger, Ibrahim. The Reverend will know all about that. He'll say a bit of righteous anger never did any harm'.